Stone, frigid columns, pungent fumes from copper bowls
on burning pedestals, the chilling breeze still penetrates
from the acute night outside.
These pillars feel clammy, as though they express my fear
of the invaders who arrive tomorrow to annihilate our ways.

My children hide safely at the coast,
their mother spirited them down
with the slaves and my brother . . .
so now only my sword remains here with me.

By the manner the wind easily dispels the incense and holy smoke,
I understand our gods also left this place . . .
perhaps they too flee to the shore.
Now only myself and my mercenaries
face the conquerors when this night drifts onward.

Why does a man stay in place after the very gods fled?
Is this the nature of a man . . .
to rail against the inevitable world,
while it is the nature of gods to dissipate at whim?
One must stand, while others are smoke
for the awe of future generations.

I cannot imagine this place without myself . . .
I touch the marble, still moist,
and fear I sense the dawn nearing,
yet I see it is still better to be a man than a god
when death arises like the breaking day,
for men may readily complete themselves
while gods can only cry
at the results of their fornications.